


I got my own hell to raise

by coffeesuperhero



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Family Drama, Family Feels, Family Secrets, Kid Fic, Loki sort of gets his shit together, Minor Jane Foster/Thor, Odin's A+ Parenting, Parenthood, Parents & Children, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-06
Updated: 2013-06-06
Packaged: 2017-12-14 04:14:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/832609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeesuperhero/pseuds/coffeesuperhero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sif had never planned to bear or raise children, but she rises to the challenge nevertheless; though Loki has long since left Asgard for the more peaceful realm of Vanaheim, family secrets call him home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I got my own hell to raise

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimers** : All characters belong to Marvel Comics & various subsidiaries. This isn't for profit, just for fun. Title is from a Fiona Apple song; I didn't have anything to do with that, either. 
> 
> Thanks be to sabinelagrande for reading this before I posted it, and to both Sabine and Leiascully for listening to my endless frustrated cries during the forty-eight hours it took me to bang this out.

The day Thor at long last ascends to the throne of Asgard is the day that Lyfia informs Sif that she is with child.

The child should, of course, be Thor's.

It is not.

"There is something unusual about this child," Lyfia says, her voice calm for all that the news she has delivered has left Sif quietly reeling. "It is subtle magic, but magic all the same, and of a kind I have not seen now for many centuries." 

Sif looks up at her sharply. Lyfia's tone is blithe, but Sif knows that Asgard's Master Healer is no fool, and she has had quite enough of people who say one thing and mean another. 

Her voice betrays her anger when she speaks, her hands clenched into fists in her lap. "And what, Healer, is the matter with it?" she demands. "Is the child not well?" 

"He is fine, my lady, and I meant no offense," Lyfia says calmly. 

"He?" Sif queries. 

"Your son, Lady Sif," Lyfia says. 

"Oh," Sif says, not at all sure how to assimilate the knowledge that the phrase _your son_ will now be applicable to her. She blinks, but the world in front of her eyes remains the same. "Of course." 

If Lyfia gives her further instruction, she does not hear it. Her mind is elsewhere, remembering how this all came to pass and wondering what it will mean for her future. That she must bear this child and raise it is hardly even a question; were it of lesser stock she might have considered quietly passing the boy off to another family of Asgard, for it would hardly be the first time such a thing had transpired here, and no one would speak ill of it, if they spoke of it at all. But _this_ child will be a member of the royal family and heir to the throne, should Thor fail to sire children of his own, and Sif feels it her duty to the Realm Eternal to learn, somehow, to raise it. _Him_ , she tells herself firmly. A son. Her son. 

And someone else's, if he can even be bothered to care, though Jotunheim will be a tropical paradise before _he_ returns to Asgard.

Lyfia seems to be dismissing her, so she shuffles out of the healing rooms, her feet taking her where she needs to go without the aid of her beleaguered brain's assistance. The pathway to the palace is lined with people, all preparing to celebrate the crowning of their new king with fearsome shouting and jubilant hearts, and she smiles in spite of herself. Thor will be a good king. He has been her friend all her long life, and she has watched him grow into a fine man and a mighty warrior, with his passion for battle and glory tempered by the same wisdom she can see in the faces of Frigga and Odin. That is a recent development, but though she would have given him her allegiance before, she must admit that he is more suited to the throne after his return from Midgard. When the Allfather had sent him there a year ago, she and the Warriors Three had been stunned, for Thor had always been the best of them in their estimation, but when he had returned, they had to admit that the change he had undergone had given him a new strength, a new purpose. 

And today they will watch him take his father's place on Asgard's throne. Truly it is a magnificent day, and she refuses to let it be overtaken by this strange new development. She will find a way through this just as long ago she found a way to fight for her realm when all others would have called it folly, and this child of hers will grow into a man who loves this place as she does. A line of soldiers parades past her as she moves to surrender her weapons to the guards at the door. Only the new king and the old will wield weapons today, and as a sign of their faith in their leaders, no one else will bear them into the throne room. She watches the guards move in, remembering when she knelt before the Allfather to swear her warrior's oath, young and bold and ready to give all for the love of Asgard. Raising a child had not been the kind of service she had anticipated performing for her realm, but her love for Asgard has never wavered, nor does it do so now. 

All through Thor's coronation, she struggles to keep her mind on the joyous events unfolding in front of her, focusing on anything but her own inner turmoil and the empty space on the steps between Frigga and herself. Afterward, they follow their friend and newly crowned king to the banquet halls for a celebratory feast; Sif walks quietly beside the Warriors Three as they boast of recent victories, regretting all the while that ere long she will not be able to join them on their quests. 

"Lady Sif, have you gone to some other realm and not invited us?" Fandral jokes, breaking into her thoughts. Her friends frown at her curiously, and she forces herself to smile.

"I am sorry, my friends," she says. "I was merely trying to decide which of Thor's great victories we should toast first at the feast." 

To her great relief she finds that she has chosen her words wisely, for there follows a loud and lengthy debate on the topic, leaving Sif free to slip away soon after they enter the large hall where the feast tables beckon invitingly, delicacies of meat and vegetable spread across large platters, and everywhere winged markers in honor of Thor. She can hear her friends carrying on as she crosses the floor, Volstagg insisting the first tale told should be of a skirmish on Niflheim from ages past, Hogun arguing for an excursion to furthest Alfheim, and Fandral vacillating between several different tales of glory, changing his mind every few moments.

Sif is looking for someone, but she knows before she begins to search that she will not find the person she seeks. He has not come to the coronation, so insistent has he been over the past several centuries that his self-imposed exile to Vanaheim is preferable to whatever imaginary tortures Asgard holds for him. She grits her teeth in frustration. This child, she vows, will be a warrior, loyal to Asgard above all else, including his own desires, for so is his mother, and she cannot imagine raising a child who did not give his love and his loyalty first to this realm. Certainly he will never forsake it for another without due cause, without _some_ explanation to those who love him. The memory of it sets her teeth on edge, but then Thor calls out to her, and she turns, a smile that she does not have to force spreading across her face when she sees the joyous expression her friend wears. 

"My king," Sif says brightly, bowing, hand over her chest, but Thor grins widely and pulls her to her feet.

"Lady Sif, you need not bow to me today," Thor tells her. "Today is a day of celebration, and I am glad to have all my friends at my side." 

"Not all of them," Sif grumbles, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice, and Thor sighs and grips her shoulder.

"One day it shall be so again," he says fervently. "I must believe that it will be so." 

"He could not even come home to see his brother take the throne?" Sif demands. "There is nowhere in the Nine Realms you would not go if he needed you, yet he will not even come home to share in your joy." 

"We fought when he left," Thor sighs. "I did not understand it then."

"I do not understand it _now_ ," she says.

"I have tried to find a way to understand for all these many years," Thor tells her, sighing again. "I may never know what grief he carries that keeps him in exile, I can only hope that when we truly have need of him, he will return." 

"I do not share your hope, I fear," she says, and though Thor looks at her strangely for a moment, he does not remark upon it, and for the rest of the feast she tries to put all thoughts of both Loki and children from her mind.

+

Vanaheim is as fair as ever on the day she makes her way to that realm once more. She has no need of the bifrost, not with the enchantments Odin has placed upon her sword, but she has little doubt that her brother knows she has left the Realm Eternal. She cares not; Heimdall is loyal to her as long as she is loyal to Asgard, and if he chooses to follow his sister's footsteps with his gift of sight, he will keep her secrets, just as he always has.

Sif finds Loki in his usual haunt, a wide, commodious room with high windows overlooking the river that flows through the main city. The Vanir's commitment to the study of arcana is legendary; their buildings dedicated to that study are as old as those of her own realm. If Loki had come here to learn from the mages of the Vanir, no one would have questioned him at all, but his refusal to return home for any reason has mystified and frustrated her for years.

"Lady," he says tersely, when he sees her in the doorway. 

"Prince," she replies, equally curt, and he rolls his eyes. 

"Can we not?" he asks, looking pained. 

"As you wish, my lord," she says, and that is all she says, for now that she is here, facing him, she cannot seem to find the words to tell him why she has come. The last time she had visited him, they had argued; she had been angry that he would not come for Thor's coronation, and he had been angry that she continued to press the issue, yet their argument had resolved itself as many of their arguments had of late, and now she must tell him of the consequences of it.

Consequences. A cold way to refer to a child, surely, though she cannot imagine that such coldness would shock him overly much. 

"Did you have need of me for something?" he asks, his frown deepening when she does not respond. "What troubles you? Has something happened at home?" 

"Would you care if it had?" she demands. He searches her face, but finding nothing but her ire written there, he spreads his hands on the table in front of him and sighs. 

"I confess that I never know where I am with you, lady," he says.

"Vanaheim," she says, gesturing around them, the single word a condemnation and an accusation.

"I have explained--"

"No!" she shouts. "No, you have not. This childish refusal to return to Asgard was never overly amusing, Loki, but you would not even return to share in your brother's joy and Asgard's . _You come home_ , and then make your explanation there." 

"Asgard has nothing I need," he says coldly, waving his hand to dismiss both her and the thought of their home. 

Her anger burns so brightly behind her eyes that she cannot even see, but still her fist lands hard against his jaw and he falls solidly to the floor, one hand splayed out in a vain attempt to catch onto the edge of the table and the other clutching at his face where she has struck him.

"How many years have you been withholding that?" he asks, delicately pushing at his jaw and wincing as he gets to his feet, warily eying her stance.

"Too many," she snaps, no longer caring at all if he ever hears what she had to say. This child would do better without a bitter traitor for a father than he would with one. 

"Sif, why have you come?" Loki asks. "If it is a fight you wanted--" 

"I made a mistake," she says, her voice thick with regret. "Goodbye, Loki." 

She hears him utter a frustrated curse as she turns to go, but she pays it no mind.

+

She fights well past the time that she should, and long after her friends can discern her secret from the curve of her belly. None of them will tell her to lay down her swords and remain in Asgard, though their faces do occasionally betray their concern. 

The rest of Asgard does not see fit to hold its collective tongue. It is hardly unusual for a lady of the Aesir to bear a child, whether or not she is married, and children are a rare and celebrated circumstance for an immortal people. But when Sif refuses all inquiries as to the child's father, _that_ is when the whispers begin. All manner of strange rumors reach her ears, twisting her lips in irritation or amusement as their content dictates. There is but one person who would truly appreciate these oft-ridiculous speculations, but as he is the only person in all the cosmos for whom she would rather perish than engage in conversation, she bears her vacillating emotions alone. 

Thor, when he can spare a moment, always has a willing ear to lend, but out of the goodness of his overly large heart he inevitably tries to repair the situation, and that is not what she needs. 

"I would claim him," Thor offers, a short time before her son's birth. "If that is what you asked of me."

"You are my oldest friend, and I thank you for the offer," Sif sighs. She stares out across the gleaming golden city beneath them, feeling the strange rise and fall of her breath pushing against her belly. "But I would not ask you to do this. It would be too much of a betrayal, and we have had enough treachery."

It is as close as she has ever come to admitting that this child will be Thor's nephew. She does not doubt that he takes her meaning well enough, and she holds her breath while she awaits his reply. 

"Your son is always welcome in Gladsheim, Sif. I hope he considers it his home," Thor tells her, smiling warmly. She returns the smile, surprised but grateful for his subtle acknowledgement of what she has not said.

And so Ullr is her great unspoken truth from the time of his birth onward, and her closest friends know, of that much she is certain, but they continue to do her the courtesy of never inquiring about his parentage. Though Sif had never before entertained the idea of children, and though Ullr is occasionally a frustration when he wails for evenings on end, as the years pass, she comes to delight in watching her son grow and learn. She still will not name his father, but she hardly thinks anyone is fooled by her silence, not when her son wanders the palace with bright, intelligent green eyes and dark curls of hair that bounce against his tiny shoulders when he laughs at some mishap wrought by his own mischief and nascent magic. 

When Lyfia had first told her that would bear this child, she had felt that all her adventures elsewhere were at an end, but thankfully it does not prove to be so. It helps, of course, that the Warriors Three never presume that motherhood will consign Sif to spend the rest of her days at home, never again to ride out for battle and for glory. 

"Leave him with Gudrun," Volstagg suggests, one sunny afternoon when they come to tell her of their latest expedition. "Let him be entertained by my brood of young ones for an afternoon while we go and fight."

Ullr, barely old enough to walk on his own, tugs at her armor and blinks up at her, green eyes wide. "Please?" he asks. "Gudrun makes the best food, and she has good stories." 

"That she does, my young friend," Volstagg agrees. "Though Hildy and Arnor tell me you've told some tales of your own recently." 

"Only what mother has told me," Ullr says dutifully. 

"Funny," Volstagg says, slapping Sif on the back, "I do not recall that you have ever fought a dragon single-handedly." 

"And so I have not," Sif agrees, looking down at her son, who smiles beatifically up at her, as though such a portrait of youthful innocence could ever have _embellished_ a warrior's tale or two. She rolls her eyes, and her son laughs. "Well, let us get you to Volstagg's wife, then, so that your mother may find a dragon to slay, else we call you a liar, young one." 

It does make her somewhat uncomfortable that Ullr has such disregard for truth, but considering the tall tales Thor and the others have told over the centuries upon their return from some faraway realm, she is willing to let this go past without too much of a reprimand. 

Besides, the dragon proves a fitting challenge. 

+

Asgard is changing. Her armies are smaller, her people more docile, more interested in peace than battle and glory. Muspelheim openly threatens them, and though Thor sends warriors to defend the Realm Eternal, they are very nearly all undone at the hands of the magician who commands the legions of fire demons. Rumors reach Sif's ears, both from their own people and those of other realms, that Asgard is under weaker leadership. They say Thor is not as wise or as capable as the Allfather, and though her loyalty to her friend and king is without question, at night alone she worries that the day may come when some enemy proves them right.

She works to train Ullr in the traditions that she knew as a young warrior, hoping that if the day comes when they all must fight, he will be prepared. But Ullr is his father's son; he lacks patience for drills or traditional combat, though he is happy enough to learn to trick his enemies with wit or magic. It frustrates her at first, and they have more than one row over it. After one such altercation, Frigga finds her in one of the gardens, angrily polishing an invisible spot out of her battle armor. 

"What troubles the Lady Sif today?" Frigga asks. 

"Motherhood," Sif curses, and Frigga laughs softly. 

"Surely that sweet child of yours isn't causing you difficulty," Frigga says, her merry voice ringing in contrast to Sif's grumbling. "I know mine never did." 

"Oh, surely not," Sif says, rolling her eyes, and Frigga laughs again. "He does not wish to fight like the other children. What am I to do?" 

Frigga fixes her with a gaze that manages to be both firm and loving, and the gentleness of her speech does not detract from the gravity of her words. "What do you want for your son, my dear?" 

Sif opens her mouth to speak, sure of her answer, but then before the words can leave her, she presses her lips together, considering the question. What _does_ she want for Ullr? She wants him to be more like her and less like his father, but surely that is her frustration with Loki, and no fault of Ullr's; she wants him to be a warrior, but surely her own mother wanted a life for her that she wanted no part of, and she would not repeat that history with her own child. 

"I want him to be happy," she says at last. "And I want him to be brave." 

Frigga smiles at her and clasps her hand. "A wise answer. And I think you will find, my lady, that both of things will come to pass. Remember that bravery is not always a strong arm and a sharp sword, and service to this realm takes a number of forms. You will both find your way, I think." 

"Thank you," Sif says, bowing her head, and Frigga leaves her with a warm smile and a lighter heart. 

From then on, Sif vows to learn from Ullr as he learns from her. He learns about Asgard and its history; Sif learns the value of patience. Perhaps her son is not a traditional warrior, she thinks, watching as he uses a spell to set fire to one of the straw foes in the training yard, but then, neither are either of his parents. Bravery and service take many forms, she reminds herself firmly, and congratulates her son on a job well done. 

+

Ullr is still quite young when Thor makes a brief journey back to Midgard to aid his mortal friends in battle. When he returns, he brings with him a mortal, Jane Foster, and introduces her to all Asgard as his betrothed. Sif and the Warriors Three are surprised but happy for their friend; the rest of Asgard takes to grumbling quietly for a time, but Jane's keen intellect and determined spirit quickly win them over.

Jane and Thor marry in a traditional Asgardian ceremony while Jane's wide-eyed mortal friends look on, amazed at the beauty of the Realm Eternal. Sif stands proudly at her king's side while Ullr dashes around at the guests' feet, making trouble, until Frigga catches him up in her arms and holds him close. 

It is an occasion that none in Asgard will forget, and all the realm's citizens save one celebrate their union. Loki's absence is so predictable that it is no longer remarked upon, yet still Sif feels the sharp tug of anger in her belly as she watches Thor and Jane make their promises to one another, an empty space at Thor's left side where Loki always stood when they were children, and where he should stand today. 

But she keeps her anger close and quiet today, for this day is a day of joy, and she will not allow the specter of Loki's memory to mar it. 

When Thor and Jane welcome their first child, a young boy Jane names _Erik_ in honor of an old comrade, Ullr takes an immediate interest in the baby. 

"Why is he so _small_ ," Ullr asks impatiently, a strange question, for Ullr himself is smaller than many of the young ones his age, lithe of frame though agile of foot. 

"He'll get bigger," Jane promises, and Ullr looks skeptical, but nods his understanding. 

The boy grows quickly enough, though with his mortal heritage he does not develop as quickly as other Asgardian children. But after a year, when Erik has grown enough to walk and talk, he and Ullr become fast friends. Sif and Thor watch them play in the gardens, a strange but fitting reversal of their childhoods as lean, dark-headed Ullr teaches stockier, golden-haired Erik about war games and weaponry. 

"They play together like they're siblings," Jane observes, coming to stand next to Sif and Thor, watching the boys squabbling good-naturedly over some toy.

"Yes," Thor says, a sad smile on his face, "they do." 

"And may it always be so," Sif says, hoping that as this new history unfolds, it bears little resemblance to the one they have behind them.

+

Life continues as it always has for a few years more. Neither war nor defeat befall them, though several alien forces make violent overtures on the outskirts of their realm that leave them all uneasy for a time. Thor worries over war with Jotunheim when word reaches them that Laufey may soon die; he takes his leave of the palace for an afternoon to spar with Sif and seek her counsel.

"Father told us when we were children that a wise king never seeks war, but must be prepared for it," Thor sighs, hefting a spear and lobbing it at her. "Are we prepared, Sif?" 

She dodges the spear neatly enough and whirls to attack him. "I should not like to question the Allfather," she says, grunting when he repels her blow with a swift move of his arm, "but I do not know if I see the wisdom in continuing on as we have been." 

"You think there is such a thing as too much peace?" Thor asks. He winces when she lands a blow. 

"Yes," she says, driving the dull handle of the spear he had thrown against his side, then sweeping his legs out from under him. "I do." 

Thor grins up at her from his place on the ground. "I should not have asked such a question of the goddess of war." 

"I do not fear war, my friend. Not for myself and not for my son," she says, offering him her hand to help him up. "We will endure. And if Asgard keeps up her strength, so will she." 

"It is not for you or for Ullr that I worry," he says, worry creasing his brow. "But thank you, Sif." 

\+ 

In Ullr's twelfth year, when the Allfather rests again in the Odinsleep, Frigga sends her handmaidens to collect the Lady Sif from the training yard, where she is overseeing battle exercises of Asgard's newest crop of warriors. Frowning at the curious summons, she leaves Hogun to bark orders at the younglings in her stead and hurries to the palace. She makes such haste that she does not slow when she reaches a wide place where two of the larger corridors meet, and without warning she crashes headlong into another person. At first she thinks it is a guard or a servant, but as she recovers her balance, she sees it is neither. 

"Loki?" she says, shocked.

He grimaces at her. "I have been _summoned_ ," he says, his fingers twitching at his side for a moment before he seems to realize that the movement betrays his anxieties and tucks his fingers against his palm instead. "You are well, I take it?" 

"As well as can be expected," she grumbles. "My presence was also requested here on this day." 

He frowns, but says no more, and Sif withholds a sigh of relief that Ullr is currently occupied with Erik and all of Volstagg's children. They make their way to Frigga's chambers in swift silence, Sif nervously wondering why Frigga has called them both here today. That Frigga knows Ullr to be her grandson is beyond doubt, but surely Frigga would not reveal Sif's secret without some forewarning. She sets her jaw and strides onward, determined to face this as she would any other challenge: fearlessly and without hesitation or regret. 

Thor and Jane await them when they arrive; Thor's face brightens as soon as he sees Loki following along behind Sif. He looks so overjoyed that it almost causes her pain.

"Brother," Thor cries, pulling Loki into an embrace. Sif is pleased to note that Loki does not move away immediately; surely, some part of him feels it is good to be home. 

Jane stands aside, eying the scene warily. Sif shares her reticence. No one knows more of Thor's sadness over his brother's extended absence than Jane, and Sif notes with approval that the queen takes Loki's hand with a slight reluctance. Sif shares a skeptical look with Jane as they all move to be seated, awaiting the arrival of the Allmother. 

Frigga appears a few moments after, motioning for them all to remain seated. She greets Loki first, beaming down at him. Even Loki cannot help but smile, a rare expression of genuine unclouded affection crossing his face.

"My son," she says, grasping Loki's hands briefly before pulling him to his feet and embracing him. 

"Hello, mother," he says, a warmth to his voice that Sif has not heard in ages. 

Frigga briefly rests one hand on her son's face, studying him as though she could read the history of his past several centuries there. "How are your students? Is the teleportation spell still giving them the same trouble?" 

"No," Loki tells her. "Your method was very effective, and I thank you for your counsel." 

It does Sif's heart good to hear that there is some part of Asgard that Loki has apparently remained in contact with over the years, though her goodwill is accompanied by a small stab of jealousy that he could not have had a care for _her_ , or for Asgard at all.

Frigga speaks quietly to Loki for a few moments more before coming to sit between her sons. She looks at each of the assembly in turn, then begins to speak. 

"Rumors have reached us that the king of the Jotnar is at last on his deathbed. Laufey has left no direct heir that they know of, and without a clear line of succession, we fear the throne may well fall into the hands of a Jotun who would see the war with our realm renewed. All of this, Thor already knows," Frigga says, Thor nodding along beside her. 

Sif tries not to frown at this news; for too long now has she felt that Asgard avoids battle when it once rode out for glory, and she tires of all these political machinations designed to keep their swords at their sides instead of held at the ready. Yet to her king and queen she owes a duty of loyalty, and if Thor and Jane seek to avoid war, she will aid them as she is needed, even if every fiber of her being screams at her to remind Thor of the wargames of their childhoods, to remind them of Asgard's history. 

Frigga begins to speak again, and Sif forces her mind to be silent so she may listen. "But there is a solution of which even you have not been advised, my king, and that is what I must tell all of you. Laufey does have an heir, and that heir is yet living," Frigga says quietly. There is an undercurrent of tension in the room now that troubles Sif; she meets Loki's eyes for only a moment before they both look away. 

Thor interrupts before Frigga can continue. "Would this heir be sympathetic to Asgard?" 

"I would hope so," Frigga says. "For he is also of Asgard." 

"No," Loki says flatly, when Frigga puts her hand on his arm. Sif sits up as straight as she can, every muscle in her warrior's body bracing for an attack that never comes. Like Loki, she does not want to believe what Frigga seems to be implying, but the more the dizzying thought of it spins around in her mind, the more truthful it seems. She remembers excursions to Niflheim, she and Thor and the Warriors Three shivering in their layers of furs while Loki all but danced across the ice, teasing them for being so slow and sluggish; she remembers the cool touch of his lips against her skin. All of this and more she remembers, and then Lyfia's words of years ago return to her: _It is subtle magic, but magic all the same, and of a kind I have not seen now for many centuries._

Loki's magic. _Jotun_ magic. She herself feels slightly ill at the thought; she cannot imagine what Loki's response will be. 

"I do not believe you," Loki continues. "You wouldn't. You wouldn't steal me and raise me and _pretend to love me_ for some political maneuver. I would believe it of Father, but I would never believe it of _you_." 

"You are our son and we are your family," Frigga says firmly, "and none of that has been pretense. But I speak truly, Loki, the Allfather rescued you from death on Jotunheim and brought you here, and you, my son, are the sole heir to the throne of that realm." 

No one speaks. 

Thor and Jane stare at Frigga, wide-eyed, while Loki's fingers twitch against his knees, their agitated movement the only outward sign of his discomfiture. 

Sif is glad of the cushioned couch beneath her, or she fears she might have met the floor with neither grace nor dignity. She thinks of Ullr, her carefree, good-natured child with his easy disposition and his precocious wit, and wonders what this will mean for them both. Unexpected as he had been, as unusual a parent as she must make, Sif loves her son; his lineage does not change that, it does not change the fact that he is her family. She can only hope that perhaps Loki will understand that for himself, though she would not blame him overly much if he did not. 

Loki is the first to speak in the stunned silence that follows Frigga's announcement.

"How," he manages to say. "How did this come to pass, and why have you kept it from me?" 

"We did not want you to feel different," Frigga offers, and he stares incredulously at his mother. Privately, Sif shares his incredulity, but she struggles to keep it off her face. "The Allfather found you after the last battle on Jotunheim and brought you home." 

"And I suppose I should be grateful for that," he says scathingly. "Oh, _thank you_ for taking me away from a place where I might have felt like I belonged. There are not words to express my _appreciation_." 

"War is a cruel thing," Frigga says. "When Laufey's house fell, they had left you for dead. Should the Allfather have let you perish?" 

"Why not?" Loki says, waving his hand. "What is one more death, in the midst of a war? Was my blood such an inconvenience after all the rest that had been spilled? And _why_ , by Yggdrasil's roots, is Sif an audience to my humiliation? Is it not enough that you have kept this from _me_ for thousands of years?"

Sif bridles at that, but keeps silent; she shares a meaningful look with Thor and then stares at the ground. For Ullr's sake, Sif knows she belongs in this small assembly, but she feels an intruder all the same.

"Sif is here because she belongs here. And I do not tell you to humiliate you, my son," Frigga says, and her voice is gentle, but that is no matter to Loki. 

"Brother," Thor tries to say, but Loki speaks over him, his angry words filling the chamber up with furious noise.

"Do _not_ refer to me as such, for you have just told me exactly what I am, and exactly what I am _not_ ," he snaps, and at that, Sif will hear no more. 

"That is hardly what she has told you and well you know it," she says. 

"Isn't it?" he shouts. "We were all of us raised on stories about the monsters of Jotunheim and the glory of Asgard as our warriors _slaughtered_ the Jotnar, and now I am told I am not only one of them, but their _king_? You should all be glad I want none of it, or _such a war_ you would have." 

"Then do nothing!" Sif shouts back, standing to face him. "You've certainly had enough practice at that!" 

"Why are you _here_?" he demands once more, stepping closer to her, within striking distance. "There is no reason that I can think of for you to be a party to this." 

She clenches her fists at her sides, refusing to give into the temptation of hitting him in front of Frigga. "I am certain that I have my own reasons! We all have our secrets," she retorts instead, crossing her arms over her chest, and of course, that is the moment that the doors swing open and Ullr rushes through, cheerfully ignoring the tense atmosphere in the room. 

"Mother," Ullr says excitedly, planting himself between Loki and Sif, pulling insistently at his mother's armor before he realizes that he has perhaps interrupted something important and falls silent and still. 

"How did you burst in here unchecked? Were there not guards outside?" Sif queries, and Ullr has the grace to look at least moderately abashed. 

"They were...called away," he says shiftily, and Sif turns to glare at Thor when he starts chuckle.

"Do _not_ encourage him," she says, and Thor does try to stop his laughing, but fails utterly in the attempt. Jane shares her husband's silent mirth; she seems relieved to have something to laugh about in the midst of all this tension.

"I am sorry, my friend, but he reminds me too much of someone I knew long ago," Thor says, looking pointedly at Loki.

Loki stares at his brother for a brief moment and then looks back to Ullr as though he has never seen a child in all his long life. All the resentment and reproach over Frigga's confession seems to have been momentarily shocked out of him, along with any desire to continue his tirade; for that, at least, Sif is grateful. 

"Sif, who..." he begins to say, but Sif ignores the question, instead bending down to speak directly to her son. 

"Ullr," she sighs tiredly, "what have we discussed about practicing your magic on the guards?" 

"That I shouldn't do it," he says, after a brief and thoughtful pause. He widens his eyes and pats her shoulder. "I am sorry, Mother." 

Sif snorts and raises an eyebrow. "Are you?" 

"No," he says, and she shakes her head. 

"At least you're honest," she sighs, standing again and running her fingers through his hair. 

"Mostly," Ullr agrees, and when she clears her throat and gestures at the assembled royals, Ullr dutifully adds, "I am very sorry for interrupting." 

Sif sighs again, and her son looks back up at her, mildly indignant. "I am!" he insists. "This time." 

Ullr seems to notice Loki for the first time, then, and he peers at him curiously. "Who are you?" 

"A magician," Loki says immediately. "Of Vanaheim. No one of consequence." 

"A prince," Sif corrects, "of _Asgard_." She takes a breath and exhales the truth that she has never admitted aloud. "And your father." 

Loki steps back as though she's threatened him with her sword. 

"Oh," Ullr says, cocking his head to one side, studying his father like Sif has seen Jane study the stars, wonder and curiosity written on his small face. "Hello." 

"Hello," Loki echoes. His voice sounds hollow and empty, and Sif spares him half a moment's sympathy, not that she would ever give such a feeling voice; she has not forgiven him for leaving them. Still, it must be an overwhelming avalanche of information to hear all at once. 

Ullr looks from one parent to the other, lips soundlessly moving, and then, to Sif's everlasting relief, he says, "May I be excused? I have to tell Arnor that you are busy and cannot presently be engaged to destroy his father in hand-to-hand combat." 

"You may," she says, and she cannot help but give him half a smile. "And do be sure to tell Arnor that when I have a moment to spare, I will put my bootprint on his father's copious backside." 

"Of course, mother," Ullr grins. He pauses only a moment to peer once more at Loki, and then he is gone, dashing out the open doorway and down the corridor. They can all hear a crash and a clatter, and then one of the guards shouts, "By Odin's beard, Ullr, have a care!" Ullr's faint and clearly half-hearted "Sorry!" drifts in soon after, and Jane covers her laughter with a cough. 

Loki looks paler than usual when Sif glances over at him again, and she feels another pang of sympathy, enough at least to appear somewhat penitent for keeping this from him. This is not the way he should have learned of Ullr's existence.

"I think perhaps you have much to speak of with the Lady Sif," Frigga says, gently patting her son's shoulder. He bristles, and Frigga takes her hand away, sighing.

Sif stifles a sigh of her own. "I will be in my chambers," she says, straightening her back and lifting her chin, "should you decide to listen to your _mother_." 

With a nod to Frigga and a bow to her king and queen, she takes her leave, striding away as fast as her legs will take her.

+

It is several hours hence before Loki appears outside her chambers, looking sullen and angry. She is only surprised that he has come at all, for she expected him to return immediately to Vanaheim and refuse to speak to any of them again. His lip is swollen, she notices, once he is standing in the lighter outer rooms instead of in the darker corridor. 

"You have spoken with Thor, I take it," she says, nodding at his lip. 

He worries at his lip tenderly with one long finger, his expression dark. "Oh yes, my _brother_ and I have had quite the discussion." 

"Some things do not change, then," she remarks, and he lets out a short, hard bark of angry laughter. 

"I suppose," he says. He bends to pick up a small sword and shield from a low table nearby; they are obviously a child's, and he stares at them for a very long while without speaking. She lets him process it, for Ullr's sake. The stars know she took long enough herself to adjust to this idea.

"We have a son," Loki states at length, an inane statement for anyone to make, but even more so in his mouth. 

"Yes," she confirms. "We do." 

"I do not understand," Loki says, replacing the armor and the weapon. 

"You seemed to understand well enough twelve years ago," Sif replies, a wry twist to her lips. 

"Oh, the mechanics I understand perfectly well," Loki drawls, and she cannot stop the shiver that runs up her spine at the memories of those nights, nor can she ignore the knowing smirk that crosses his lips when he notices. By the stars, as angry as she has been at his absence, she has missed him; the memory of the last time she touched him, and not in anger, warms her cheeks. He looks vaguely flushed himself, and she is relieved that at least she is not alone in her lust. 

He clears his throat. "What I cannot understand is why everyone seems determined to keep secrets from me." 

"Consider it recompense for all the secrets you have kept from the rest of us," she sighs, and he shrugs. "Why did you leave us, Loki?" 

"It was necessary," he says, and she slaps her palm hard against a nearby column at those odiously familiar words. He must have been expecting it; he does not even startle at the noise.

Her palm stings, but she ignores it. "You always say that, but for what purpose? For whom was it so necessary?" 

"For _me_ ," he snaps. "What did you want for me to do? To remain here, forever in my brother's shadow? To subject myself to the perennial disappointment of his leadership?" 

"Thor is a good king, Loki," Sif says. "He is _honest_ and he is _fair_." 

"Oh, I have no doubts about _that_ ," he says. "I doubt only that they are the best qualities for a ruler to have." 

"Oh, please," she sighs, rolling her eyes, and he shrugs again. 

"This is the truth you wanted," he says, and she snorts: truth from him is a slippery thing. "I will not apologize if it is not a pleasant sound in your ears." 

"It is not that it is unpleasant, it is that it is inexplicable," Sif says. She waves her hands at him. "Help me understand, would you? If not for my sake or for Asgard's, at least for your son's."

His fingers twitch at his side, and to cover the nervous motion he brings his hand up to cover his bruised mouth. He paces for a moment; she can almost hear him thinking while she awaits this explanation. 

"Recall if you will the memories you have of me here," he says, finally stopping his pacing. "In your estimation, lady, was I ever _happy_? For in all my long years spent here I have nothing that brings me joy, only an endless, consuming bitterness that would have driven me mad if I had remained." 

"But you fought with us," Sif says, shaking her head in dismay. Her mind recalls memories of their childhoods and their adolescence, wondering how she could have missed such a well of bad feeling from someone with whom she had once been so close. "We were _friends_. We were-- we were a great many things," she settles for saying. 

"I was only ever Thor's brother," he says, spitting the words out as though they taste foul on his ftongue. "And a political tool, besides." 

"You were never thus," she interjects, and he holds up his hand, forestalling further protestations. 

"Does it matter what the truth of it is to you? The truth of it for me is that this place that you love will always be poison for me, while Vanaheim is some measure of peace. I will never walk these halls that I do not long to rule over them. For centuries you have argued with me and exhorted me to return here, but can you not understand that it is better for us all if I do not?" 

She watches his face and his hands carefully, trying to decipher what truths are hidden there. She reads him well enough after all these years, for whether or not he believes it, they were friends, once, and lovers thereafter, and she has not forgotten how he looks when he is _afraid_. 

"What is here that you fear so much?" she asks quietly, stepping forward, her hand resting on his forearm. She knows she has hit her mark when he looks down at her in surprise before rearranging his features into bland nonchalance. Her fingers squeeze his arm. "Loki." 

"Monsters," he says finally. "And none more so than the one that I am." 

"You aren't--" 

"I am," he says firmly, "but less so on Vanaheim, and if I will not _come home_ perhaps you will understand when I say that I stay there out of the same kind of misguided duty to this place that keeps you here." 

At that, the fight goes out of her. So much she has done for love of Asgard, and so much she will do again; if this twisted nonsense is somehow a tragedy borne of love for this place, she will not argue against it. 

"You will not come and see us?" she asks. 

"I do not think it would be terribly wise," he says. "I have stayed here too long already." 

"Not even for your son?" she asks, and he bows his head and looks away. "It is fine," she sighs. "I would not keep you from your duty, strange as the form of it is to me." 

"Thank you," he says softly, the sound of it barely audible. He reaches for her hand, and she offers it to him, slipping her fingers between his. "You are always welcome to visit, you know." 

"As are you," she says, arching an eyebrow. "I am not the one who walks secret paths between the realms." 

"And I am not the one with an enchanted sword that lets me go wherever I please," he parries, and she smiles.

"Fair enough," Sif says, frowning thoughtfully at Ullr's small sword and armor. "Ullr is always begging to come along on _adventures_." 

A knock on her chamber door interrupts them, and she sighs as she pulls her hand away from his. "It is probably someone returning Ullr from some new mischief," she explains. "It is not an infrequent occurrence." 

"Well done, Ullr," Loki murmurs, and she smacks his arm on the way to the door; the sound of his low laughter follows her, a welcome pleasant noise after all their bitter words.

There is indeed a guard at the door, but he does not have Ullr in tow. He bows and salutes when he sees Loki. 

"My lord, the king has sent me bid you come to speak with him, when your matters here are concluded." 

Loki's lip curls in distaste. "Tell the _king_ that I have business in Vanaheim this evening that cannot be delayed, and send my apologies." 

"Your _sincere_ apologies, I'm sure," Sif adds, shaking her head; Loki glares at her but does not remark upon her addendum. 

The guard looks between them, worried. "He said you would say as much, my lord, and he instructed me to tell you that he has received word that the king of the Jotnar has died. He said your presence was urgently needed and that you would understand why." 

Once more, Sif feels the same familiar hot surge of anger at this war-weary Asgard; again she wonders why they will not show their strength. She does not wish to question the Allfather's designs, but she recalls her own frustrations with Ullr and Frigga's words of wisdom, words she knows to be true. Bravery and service take many forms, and not always those that parents expect. What she wants for Loki, she realizes, is the same thing she wants for her son, and with that realization the last of her anger drains away, leaving love in its wake.

"Tell Thor that his brother will be along directly," Sif says, before Loki can reply. He looks sharply over at her, and she gazes calmly back, willing him to trust her. Mercifully, he makes no sound, and she looks back to the guard, lifting her chin higher. "For now we have our own urgent matters to discuss. Leave us." 

When it seems the guard may not comply, she stares him down with the steely look she reserves for the greenest warriors, and it does the trick: he gives them both a hurried nod and salute before turning and running down the corridor. 

"Neither you nor Thor can make this decision for me," Loki snaps, as soon as the guard is away. She holds up her hand for silence as she closes the doors. 

"I know. So go," she says, turning back to him, and his eyes widen in surprise. 

"You would have me ignore a command from our king?" he asks. 

"I heard no command, merely a request," she says simply; he is not the only one here who is good with words. Ullr has taught her the value of them. "If you heard otherwise then perhaps you were not listening." 

Loki folds his arms carefully over his chest, the fingers of his left hand twitching in agitated amusement against his forearm. "Clearly you have been too much in my presence today, lady, you are beginning to sound like me." 

"On the contrary," she says, stepping close enough to lay her hands on his arms, "I think I have not been enough in your presence of late. Nor will I be likely to be again, if you do this thing they ask of you." 

He raises an eyebrow, but he does not move away from her touch. "So you would send me back to Vanaheim and have me forsake my duty to Asgard, all for sentiment's sake? That does not sound like you." 

"You are doing what you can for Asgard in Vanaheim, or so much you have said," she reminds him. "And for my part, I grow weary of an Asgard that shies away from warfare. If it is war Jotunheim wants, then war they shall have. We will meet them in battle as we did before, and we will be victorious." 

"I see," he says, his tone crisp, and she remembers, too late, that she speaks of a place that was once his home, though he may not remember it. 

"Forgive me," she sighs, dropping her hands away from his arms, and he shakes his head. 

"This monstrous heritage is nothing I want any part of," he says. His hand moves through the air between them, crisp and quick like the flash of a dagger. "Do not apologize to me. If it were my decision alone I would destroy the entire accursed realm and we would never speak of it again." 

She studies his face. "You do not want the throne?" 

"Not for any good reason," he says darkly. 

She nods her understanding, thinking of his earlier promise of war between their realms. _Such a war you should have_ , he had said; she shudders to think of such a betrayal. If it is in her power to keep him and Asgard from such a path, she will see it done. 

"Then return to Vanaheim and we will speak no more of this nonsense," she says, placing her hands firmly on his chest. "War will come or it will not; if it does I, for one, will meet it gladly." 

"Do have a care, if war does come, lady," he cautions, his fingers light and vaguely cool against her own when his hands come up to cover hers. "You will do more good for Asgard here than you will in Valhalla." 

Sif flexes her fingers against the hard straps of armor. "You doubt my strength?" 

"Never," he says, squeezing her hands, "but not every battle ends in victory." 

"Mine do," she says proudly, and he laughs until she kisses him, pulling him against her with all her considerable strength. If his bruised lip troubles him, he gives no indication: he leans into the kiss and deepens it, wrapping his arms tightly around her, long fingers pressing in at her waist. She pulls away just enough to speak, keeping their bodies close. 

"You were not leaving immediately," she says, and it is not a question, so he makes no answer except another lingering kiss. 

She has had other partners in the twelve years since she last allowed him into her bed, but none of them have ever challenged her or satisfied her as he does. They make love the way they fight, Loki's clever fingers dancing rhythmically across her skin, her own hands firm and decisive on his. She wonders briefly at the slide of his cooler skin against her own, recalling the reason for it with a detached curiosity. He watches her carefully for a moment, perhaps waiting to see if she will decide that who he used to be will matter now. Ever one for quick action, she does not leave him to wonder for long, and when she bends to kiss him again she can feel his gratitude in the way his hands come up to cup her face. 

Much later, they dress in the peaceful silence of Sif's bedchamber; he slips away to collect his bracers and boots, discarded earlier in her outer chambers. Just as his fading steps reach their destination, she hears the outer doors to her chambers open, followed by the sound of Ullr's pattering footsteps. 

"Oh," she hears Ullr say. "I didn't know you were still here." 

Loki's reply is low and muffled; irritated when she cannot hear what is said, she begins to creep down the passageway toward them. Though Sif has little doubt that Loki has missed the sound of her footsteps, no matter how quiet, still she waits silently outside the antechamber, listening to her son and his father.

"Well, hello," Ullr says, the sound of his voice inquisitive, curious. "Are you really a magician?" 

"Yes," Loki says, equally curious. "You didn't ask if I was really a prince. Why not?" 

"I don't really care about that," Ullr says. Sif can hear him yawn. "Erik is a prince and he's in trouble _all the time_ , so it can't be very much fun at all." 

"And how much of that is Erik's fault," Loki asks, a smile hiding somewhere in his voice, "and how much of that is yours?" 

"Well," Ullr says, his tone thoughtful, "not all of it is mine." 

She can hear her son rustling around, and then his voice drops to a barely audible whisper. "But the spell that broke the Queen's telescope was mine, and Erik only agreed to take the blame because the King threatened to banish whomever was responsible, so you can't tell anyone it was me." 

Sif nearly sighs aloud; there are times that Ullr reminds her so much of Loki, and this is certainly one of them. There's another rustling noise and the sound of a booted foot tapping the ground before Loki speaks again. 

"Why would you trust me with this information?" 

There is a short silence, and even without watching Sif knows precisely the look that Loki is receiving, for she has seen it on Ullr's face herself: shrewd and calculating, but somehow still good-hearted, as though all Loki's intellect and all her own strategic intelligence had combined with a good measure of Thor's cheerful goodwill to produce a person who is dangerously bright but sincerely charming. Ullr, at least, has inherited none of his father's bitterness. 

"Because," Ullr says at length, "Mother would probably kill you if I were to be banished." 

Loki makes an amused noise. "I see." 

"I shouldn't like it if she did," Ullr explains. "I'm sure I would be terribly cross with her." 

"I'm sure I should be as well," Loki drawls. 

"I think you'd just be dead, actually," Ullr points out, and Sif leans silently against the wall, hand pressed over her mouth, grinning.

"Then I appreciate your offer to be cross on my behalf all the more," Loki says. 

Whatever he says next is accompanied by a scraping noise; she suspects Ullr has likely returned wearing the small set of ceremonial armor Thor had made for him on his most recent birthday and is now undergoing the short and noisy process of taking it all off. When she can hear their words again, Ullr is recounting some tale from his afternoon in the training yard, which seems to involve Arnor and spells. She shakes her head and hopes he hasn't set anything else ablaze on accident; his magic has been terribly unpredictable lately, and the tutors have been unable to help him learn to control it. She wonders if Loki could be of any assistance-- surely their magic is similar enough. Perhaps, she considers, she will be seeing more of Vanaheim in the coming years.

"Are you a warrior, like mother?" Ullr asks. 

"No. I never really enjoyed battles, unlike your mother and your uncle," Loki grumbles. 

"Why not?" 

Loki sighs. "I was never really one for brute force. It invited...criticism." 

Sif cannot see it, but she can imagine that Ullr is nodding his understanding. She has seen him playing with Volstagg's children, lightfooted and lithe and always dancing just out of reach of their attacks, not at all unlike his father. Unlike Loki, however, he takes the teasing he earns with a cheerful spirit, which she tries to encourage. 

"Mother says that if people don't like you as you are then their names are only worth knowing so you can boast about it when you beat them on the training grounds," Ullr says. 

"Yes, well," Loki says, clearing his throat and speaking a bit louder, "your mother was ever the wiser one of the two of us." 

"Will you only compliment me when I am not around to hear it?" Sif asks, finally stepping fully into the room to face the two of them. 

Loki smirks at her, but it is Ullr who replies. "Mother, you have been listening this whole time," he says. 

"So I have," she admits.

Ullr turns back to peer at Loki. "Hold a moment, you said something about my uncle earlier! Is Thor my uncle?" 

"Yes," Sif affirms, when Loki only nods. 

"But that means that Erik and I are cousins and he _doesn't even know_ ," Ullr says, delight spreading across his face at the thought. He leaps up and heads for the door, stopping just as he reaches it and turning back to Sif, a pleading expression on his face that she knows perfectly well is only partially sincere. "May I go and tell him, please?" 

"You may," she says. "Because you asked."

Ullr grins and pushes open the doors with a strength his small frame would not suggest he possesses. Together, they watch him careen around the corner at the end of the corridor, skidding on the slick flooring, shouting for his cousin. 

"I fear for the palace," Sif sighs, as their son disappears from view.

"He is our son," Loki says, and she smiles at the pride in his voice. "I fear for the _realm_." 

"It survived us," Sif says, laughing. 

"So far," Loki amends, laughing along with her, though his mirth is short-lived. "I suppose I should go and see my brother before I take my leave of this place. He should have an answer." 

"I did not think you would see him at all," she says, surprised but pleased. 

"You are the best memory I have of this place," he tells her. "I shouldn't like to mar it by disappointing you." 

She kisses him again for that. "I tell Ullr that bravery comes in more forms than brandishing a weapon, though that is my own preference." 

He grasps her hand. "Thank you for that." 

"Thank your mother," Sif says firmly. "She is the one who imparted this wisdom to me, years ago." 

A shadow crosses his face. "I am not likely to forgive them their sins, Sif, and if ever I do it will be many long years before that day comes." 

"I know," she says. "But go and speak with Thor, and try to remember that he had no hand in any of it. Some of us have loved you blindly, and if our eyes are now open we love you no less." 

He kisses her, this time; it is softer than it is when she initiates it, and she sighs against his mouth. 

"Careful," he cautions, stepping back, "or I think Thor will be waiting for a good while longer." 

"Hmm. You will find that my motives are hardly pure, as I am about to ask you for a favor," she says, and he raises an eyebrow. 

"Oh?" 

She nods. "Would you consider taking Ullr on as one of your pupils? He is fast outpacing our tutors, and I would prefer he had his magical instruction from someone more understanding of his talents and more suited to his... disposition." 

"I presume you mean, 'penchant for magical mischief-making,'" Loki replies wryly, and she laughs. "And do you not think I might encourage some of that without you around to temper my sense of _fun_?" 

"Are you asking me to come with you?" she asks. 

"Not to stay," he sighs. "For I know that you will not."

"This is my home," she reminds him, but she finds herself considering this short-lived change of scenery nonetheless. She would see Asgard's strength renewed, but her wishing will not make it so. When the Allfather had enchanted her sword, centuries before, he had told her to use its power for the good of the realm, and even Odin Allfather must rest now and again for the good of the same. Perhaps this brief excursion to Vanaheim will be hers.

"Are you even certain that Ullr would wish to leave?" Loki asks, interrupting her thoughts. "He seems happy, with you. I would not have that taken from him." 

Sif shakes her head. "Ullr will miss Erik, perhaps, but he is not without a considerable sense of adventure. A chance to study magic on a faraway realm? With his father? He will be delighted." 

Loki considers this, nodding slowly. "I am amenable if he is. And you, lady?" 

"I have heard," she says carefully, measuring her words, "that the armies of the Vanir have a fighting style like none else in all the Nine Realms." 

"So they do," he confirms. There is a light in eyes that she has not seen for too many centuries, and she cannot help but smile in return at the brightness in his expression and the promise she hopes it holds for the future.


End file.
